Fruits and Nuts
by Goldleaf83
Summary: A vital debate among all the guys on a hot day. Written for the Short Story Speed Writing Challenge.


_Written for the 2014 Short Story Speed Writing Challenge. The first sentence comes from ML Miller Breedlove's "Gone Fishing."_

_I have loved Hogan's Heroes since the 1970s, but none of its characters are mine; they were created by Bernard Fein and Albert S. Ruddy. I acknowledge their ownership and that of Bing Crosby Productions and intend no copyright infringement. At no point will I or others profit monetarily on this story._

ooOoo

_Plop … plop_.

The sweat dripped off Carter's nose straight onto his t-shirt, adding two more dark stains to the collection on his shirt. He had shed his usual shearling-lined flight jacket, and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt nearly to the elbow.

The others had followed his example in the unseasonable heat, stripping down to just their shirts; Newkirk had gone one step further and had discarded his long-sleeved blue turtleneck in favor of just his undershirt as he sat on the bench in front of Barracks 2, with LeBeau on his left and Carter on his right. Kinch leaned against the wall beside them, tall enough to catch the modicum of shade provided by the eaves of the hut but wishing it was later in the day so that the shadows would extend further out. Still, they'd all agreed that it was better outside to catch any hint of a breeze than staying in the sweltering barracks.

"Give that over," Newkirk said languidly to LeBeau, gesturing for the Frenchman to share the handmade fan that Kinch had fashioned out of a report snitched from Klink's office, glued to a few slats he had whittled.

"_Non_, it is not your turn yet," LeBeau refused, fanning himself lightly.

Newkirk yawned, not up to trying to wrestle it from him. "Then send a bit o' that breeze you're making this way," he suggested.

Colonel Hogan strolled out of the hut to join them. He too had given in to the heat and left both his flight jacket and hat in his quarters, and was wearing only his uniform shirt out in the summery sun. He glanced down at Newkirk's bare shoulders and arms with mild disapproval. "Lose your shirt in a card game, Newkirk?"

"As if," the Englishman sniffed, then added, "Have a heart, Colonel. None of you blokes are saddled with a wool turtleneck for a shirt, and it's hot as blazes out here."

Hogan arched an eyebrow, but nodded. "Don't complain to me if you get in trouble with the guards for being out of uniform," he warned, though without any heat in his voice. He crossed his arms and leaned back against the wall next to Kinch, trying to find a small patch of shade for himself.

"How can it be this hot in June?" LeBeau wondered, covering his mouth as he caught Newkirk's earlier yawn. His eyes drooped closed, his hand with the fan slowly stilling.

"Know what would be good right now?" Carter said dreamily. "Some peach ice cream. On top of my grandmother's peach pie. That was the best summer dessert."

"Nah," Newkirk shook his head. "It's strawberry season. Strawberries with cream … that's what you want, Andrew." He deftly slipped the fan out of LeBeau's motionless hand and began fanning himself with it, though he tilted the fan so that LeBeau got some of the benefit. The French corporal didn't stir.

"No, it's what _you_ want," Carter retorted. "_I_ want peach ice cream. On top of peach pie."

"Cherry pie," Kinch countered. "Made with tart cherries. Michigan is cherry country, and I used to pick them from the two trees we had in our back yard. Then Momma and my sisters would pit them and turn them into fresh cherry pies. Liza and I would argue over whether it was harder work to pick them or stone them: she always wished for cherries that had no stones. I could pick enough for them to can them, so we could have cherry pie year round. A taste of summer, we always said…" he trailed off, looking vaguely off into the distance.

Hogan shook his head. "Summer tastes like blueberries," he corrected. "Blueberry pie, blueberry cobbler, blueberry muffins, blueberry pancakes, blueberry jam, blueberry compote, blueberry fool … though nothing tastes better than big fat blueberries pulled right off the bush."

"You had bushes in your backyard?" Kinch asked.

Hogan shook his head, his face turning an unaccustomed shade of mild pink. "Uh, no. Old man Wallace had some on his side lot down the street and my brothers and I would sneak some of his—till my dad found out and put a stop to it. We knew Mr. Wallace never harvested them, so we'd figured it was better us getting them than the birds. But my dad made us apologize and offer to pick them all for Mr. Wallace. That was a hot and itchy few days' work." He scratched his head idly. "He did allow us to take a bunch of the berries home to my mom." He grinned. "I still thought they tasted better when we were sneaking them straight off the bush, though. 'I found my thrill on Blueberry Hill,'" he finished with a chuckle.

Newkirk clicked his tongue three times censoriously. "Nicking berries as a youngster? That'll lead you to a bad end, sir.

Hogan huffed his breath out past his lower lip, the breeze slightly stirring the lock of hair that had fallen down across his forehead. "Yep, and here I am."

"You are all wrong," LeBeau put in, eyes still closed. Apparently he had been listening to the conversation after all. "The best summer fruit is apricots."

"Apricots?!" Newkirk sputtered, outraged. "Fuzzy, no-taste poor excuse for a fruit…"

LeBeau opened his eyes and swiped the fan back as Newkirk accidentally waved it too near him in his attempt to communicate his indignation against apricots.

"Bah—you have just never had a truly ripe one, plucked right from the tree, Newkirk," he answered, fanning himself lightly. "Velvet outside, golden kisses of the earth, fruits of the sun, split in half, upturned like egg yolks, and baked in a tart … apricots capture the summer better than any other fruit," he rhapsodized in a murmur, lost in a reverie.

Newkirk regarded him sidewise, respect and annoyance warring for space on his face. He turned his head back out towards the compound. "You're barmy, mate. You can't beat an English strawberry. As the wise man says that my mum used to quote, 'Doubtless God could have made a better berry than the strawberry, but doubtless God never did.' When I go to heaven"—this idea prompted snorts from LeBeau and Kinch—"I'll find acres of strawberries and rivers of cream … strawberry fields forever." He sighed happily at the prospect.

Carter shook his head. "Heaven'll have peach orchards with the peaches always ripe. After the war, I'm movin' to the country; I'm gonna eat a lot of peaches."

A door banged, and across the compound Klink emerged onto the porch of his office, gesticulating frantically at Schultz and pointing to the motor pool.

"I know one fruit we can all agree on," Hogan smiled. "How about a raspberry for the Kommandant?"

_Author's note:_

_Credit is due to William Allen Butler, whom Newkirk unknowingly very slightly misquotes on strawberries. There's also a little game going on here. Most of you will catch the embedded Beatles reference, but there's a short song allusion for each of the other fruits too (except the last one, of course!). So my thanks, in order, to the anonymous author(s) of "The Riddle Song," also known as "I Gave My Love a Cherry"; Vincent Rose and Larry Stock for "__Blueberry Hill" (recorded in 1940 by Gene Autry and 1941 by Glenn Miller, so it's actually period and Hogan can cite it, though I like the 1956 Fats Domino version); Eva Rivas for "Apricot Stone"; and_ _The Presidents Of The United States Of America (that's a band, by the way) for "Peaches." _


End file.
